Letter from the editors
It is with our greatest admiration that we present to you our third
issue of Sad Girls Club. Over the course of the last two years we
have been able to grow as designers, writers, and editors but also
have been able to watch our contributors grow.
From our small dream one late night in a American University
classroom October 2014 now to publishing and printing our third
issue. With this issue we hoped to reach beyond an internal sphere
and give a glimpse of how the outside world affects us. Against my
Skin has been many months in the making but well worth the wait.
It is because of this that we see it as our most important issue.
Sad Girls Club was created to give a platform for words normally
left in the diary, images stored and never presented. Against my
Skin is honest, raw, non-apologetic, and more than anything,
human. We hope you enjoy and take something away from this.
Listen to it and feel the hearts bleeding on every page.

illustration by Sofia Salazar

Love
Finding meaning in this skin

4

Love is not a flower
to be crushed in the fist,
for the sake of displaying
nor should it be.
if the garden it grows in
remains unchecked in devotion,
What withers near roses
may surely breed.
Love is not a spade
meant to toil in soil
in hopes of unearthing
its worth,
For a love occupied
by the thoughts of tomorrow
might relinquish the present
for work.
Love is not a flower
to be crushed in the fist
for the sake of displaying,
a part.
Love is the gardener
who knows of the harvest
and worships the rest of the
process
as art.
- Respiration
Words by Gulban Saib, photo by Lucila Dazzi

The Way I Am
we often see ourselves as imposters
but I the most
I think
living someone else’s life
on the edge of a cliff
how could they want me enough
to keep holding on
to graze my back with their fingers
to stop me from jumping?
It’s like I’m the backroom of an old house
I’m barely used but to store old furniture and
to know it will still be there in the morning
someday they will all see through
the satin laying atop my skin
throwing shadows against my bumps
and my curves
to make them seem intentional
like i am this way because
i chose to be
i dream of them
finally exposing me
who i really am
pulling my satin sheet away so fast
it burns the skin underneath
leaving it red and calloused
gently used up and thrown away

Words by Cameron Cready-Pyle,
Art by Izzi McDonnell

Skinless
Shed some light
On my shedding skin
That pesky membrane of melanin
That keeps the sun from hitting me
Where I need it most
A sense of touch
From head to toe
Around my ankles and elbows
That glues me to the thought
Of holding someone close
But never getting close enough
To touch whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really there
Oh angel of skin
My tabernacle of sin
Crack open my shell
Peel me from the fruit
And touch the pit of me
Skinless and all

Words by Dan Keesey,
Photo by Julieta Terceiro

Honey
on toast
Breakfast
Reminds me how sweet
And simple life can be.
How the morning can seem
To give you the hug you craved
The cold night before.
I know itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s possible to be
A hopeless romantic
while feeling the pure
Freedom of independence When you let loneliness seep
Into your pores as it should,
You learn to love how the light
Hits the cheek of your friend
Whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sitting across from you
Also eating lavender honey on
toast.

Words by Izzi McDonnell
Photo by Lucila Dazzi

illustration by Sofia Salazar,
photo by Abril Oteiza

Chipotle,
Chipotle,
Chipotle,

The Sun of My Stomach
Words by Calkidan Fisseha, photo by Abril Oteiza

As I pace around my house hungry as hell, I open the fridge and stare into
its depths. The only thing that didn’t require much effort was my brother’s
leftover chipotle from 3 days before. At this point, he probably forgot
about it. I decided to take the food safety risk. As I crawled into my bed at
2 am with a half eaten chipotle bowl, there was no feeling greater. Then
I thought about it... there was one thing. The way my skin feels when I’m
laying in the sun.
I’m vitamin D deficient and always forget to take my pills so I use letting
the sun penetrate deep into my layers of skin as an excuse to get my
required levels. I know it can be dangerous - skin cancer is no joke. But
the feeling of the hot sun against your skin is unmatched. The magic of
the heat continues for the rest of the summer when I look in the mirror
and see the glow I’ve gotten from the big star. It’s not just me - every
black person I know gets this BEAUTIFUL richness to their skin after doing
anything in the sun. The colors of our skin are already amazing, but the
glow we get takes it up a notch. There’s no need to sit in the sun for
hours, just deciding to read your book outside instead of under artificial
energy sapping lights can get the job done. Life’s a beach, but the beach
isn’t always close so sometimes sitting on your patio is enough. It’s a
natural highlight, no need for a $30 stick. I’ve decided to compromise
with my health and love of UV rays - sunscreen is my new best friend. How
I equated leftover Chipotle to the sun is beyond me, but it’s me.

Milk &
honey
dreams
Words by
Izzi McDonnell
Photo by Abril Oteiza

I had a dream once that i walked into a
Bright glowing silver ocean
And waded through its shining waters
Until they were above my thighs, soon
Enveloping my entire body,
And there i slept
Looking up into the sky
Letting the moonlight feed me
And the waters hold and carry me,
Embryonic waters
That put everything at peace:
All the waves raged above me
And nothing could hurt me anymore
All sound was gone
All breathing unnecessary
No more need
Only exist
A moment of such clarity
Of why I can no longer love him
Of how I can no longer love them:
I’ve been loving and loving
As ceaselessly as the moon and the sun
Love the earth each day and night
And every morning and midnight we forget
To kiss and thank them
For all that they do for us
Each day we awake
We are reborn
Each day a miracle
When they all forgot how to love me
When i loved them all endlessly
That’s when i fell in love with
Love in its purest form:
Ocean
Sun
Moon
Nourished by the milk of
The supernatural light.

i was supposed to love myself
from the beginning / twenty years
later I look in the mirror and finally
like what I see
- by Sanjana Hariprasad

They say you find your reflection
In those around you.
That night I became
The moon’s bright reflection
In which you see yourself.

I’m friends with Elysia Crampton on Facebook. That doesn’t mean she knows me and it
doesn’t make me special, it just means she uses her personal page rather than a product
page for her body of work. Following her posts, the ribbon between her personal social
projection and her --what would be called by the Western world - “product” is often
blurred, and perhaps in Crampton’s process it doesn’t even really exist.
Just yesterday, about the cover of her just-released sophomore LP, Demon City, she
wrote this: “It is an image of the Mexica people, exampling how even in precolonial
times, within empire, the femme native body was used as a slate on which imperial
violence was written. Although nudity in our ‘postcolonial’ world has come to signify
weakness (many historians claim it meant the same to the Aztecs), I would argue this
image of the goddess Coyolxauhqui glimpses a time and place where nakedness could
show strength, in spite of the violence that marks her.”
Nakedness, ‘postcolonial,’ violence against the femme, these are such crucial themes
in the work of Crampton and many others who have regurgitated club music into a new
form of queer theory musical work so intricate and insummarable that the movement
doesn’t properly have a name.

Electronic music has always been - or at least for most of its lifespan was - queer music.
House, techno, ambient, dubstep, you name it: these genres evolved from queer spaces,
often from dance as protest. You don’t need a DJ Sprinkles interlude to tell you; the
formulas and modules of these underground movements are woven with queer history
in every way.
But a peek behind the curtain of the mutation-filled queer identity-based here-to-stay
club music coming from contemporaries like Crampton, Arca, Lotic, Rabit, Kablam, Chino
Amobi, and many more turns the entire musical process in on itself. If one was searching
for a perfect musical equivalent to turn-of-the-century deconstructionist ideology, one
wouldn’t have to look much further. The new experimental club movement works with
familiar sounds, trap bass kits and truncated vocal samples lay low under shuddering
noise rhythms in most of the work. Sounds are constantly and consistently reappropriated
into new voices that churn with rebellion and inner turmoil. From Lil Jon’s “yeah!” to
Aaliyah’s “Are You That Somebody,” familiar pop culture tropes find themselves torn
into torturous pieces within this framework. The nuances of identity and selfhood today
are infinitely complex on an incredibly finite scale.
To engage with the violence of named identities is an inherently disconcerting and
uncomfortable process, and so this music reflects that. House music was about creating a
space protected from the horrors beyond the club walls, but the music that has exploded
following Arca’s seminal &&&&& release embraces those horrors and mutates them into
weaponry for the inflicted.
The transformation of electronic music into a revolutionary weaponry is important. The
unclassifiable strangeness that permeates these songs confounds quite intentionally.
There is something so secretly personal about Demon City and about so many other
similar albums, and yet it is anything but private. It’s meant to be shared. A world of
social media connections has been vital for the livelihood of many trans and queer
people for that very reason. Ending her status on Demon City, Crampton summarizes
as such: “I believe there is power in recovering and talking about a difficult past, in
confronting violence, in addressing all the unsanctioned ways we support and show up
for one another along the way-- in spite of race, gender, class, species, ability, history - all
the ways that our love is irreducibly incoherent to state apparatus/vocabulary.”

Chicago-born and India-raised musician, DJ Ayes Cold
(pronounced “Ice cold”) left her white collar job at a non-profit
to follow her passion and become a full-time musician. After
occupying the DC scene for the past few years, she’s taking
over the District’s electronic scene in an idiosyncratic and
sensitive way, paving the way for future minority producers
and beatmakers.

Boundaries
Interviewed by Izzi McDonnell

What was your experience interacting with
people when you first decided to DJ? What
feeling do you find in music that you can’t
find working up the DC ladder?
Well, at my former non profit job I definitely
had limited interaction with people. Literally
most of it was via email, and when in person
I interacted with a relatively narrow subset
of people (mostly academics, ‘experts’, and
white collar professionals). It was refreshing
to start spinning on the side, because I realize
I’m actually good at reading people and
responding to their energy. I’m introverted,
but people also keep me going - their hopes,
expectations, and reactions. Through DJing
I’ve been fortunate to build relationships
with people I probably would have never
met, had I stayed at my 9-5.
Honestly, music makes me feel passionate
again. There was very little of that at my
9-5. I had wondered where that formerly
hardworking creative person had gone, until
I started spinning...

You play often at venues around the city, but
what are you favorite places in DC that you like
to go to for shows?
My favorite spots currently are U Hall and the
930 Club. I’ve also caught some great shows at
Songbyrd. The Velvet Lounge is really accessible,
so I have a lot of love for that space. My dream
place to DJ would be a very elevated round stage
where I could see and connect with everybody in
the room. The stage would also be rotating, so I
wouldn’t be turning my back on anybody for too
long.
After all the different things you’ve been
involved in, from being a student at Georgetown,
to working at a non-profit, to performing at
festivals, what have been your values that stuck
with you through all your changes?
Off the top of my head:
• Pushing forward, consistently,
challenges.
• Managing my own expectations.

despite

the

However, over the past couple of years I’ve
become aware of newer values - values that I
wasn’t actively aware of before I started DJing.
For instance, I know it can sound trite to say
“do what you love,” or “follow your heart.” I
used to be a skeptic of that kind of logic. Yet as
soon as I found what
it is I loved, I realized
its importance in life.
I also have become
increasingly
more
aware that you can’t
please everyone ,
and you can’t make
everybody like you
or your work. You’ve
got to keep going,
despite
naysayers.
You’ve got to believe
in yourself - we are all
we have.
In a previous interview, you talk about
how making mixes
for you becomes like
a rabbit hole - where
you can just lose yourself in the process.
Why do you think humans crave that level
of intense passion and
focus? What is it about
the human experience
that makes music so
important?
I think humans crave
that intense passion
and focus because
it’s meditative - it’s because we crave truly living
in the moment. Across philosophies, religions
and creeds, there’s evidence that people seek
to live in the moment. Carpe diem. The notion
feels universal almost. So I think that passion
and focus can briefly take us to that place, the
Now. Music is important because it lets us live
in our senses - sound can really feel exhilarating for the body. Music is also an instant way

of connecting with other people- across languages
and cultures. I also see this on a more micro-level
- I see community even on a packed dance floor,
because everybody is feeling the beat at the same
time. I definitely enjoy being a part of that.
Being in the music
industry - especially
being a woman and
a minority in the
electronic scene can feel like a great
burden (I know
Mark Redito talks
about that for being one of the only
Filipino-American
musicians). What
do you think are
the important conclusions we should
be making about
minority musicians
being in a whitewashed and patriarchal industry?
I would say we
should
definitely
start thinking more
multidimensionally
or intersectionally
about the experiences of DJs and
musicians. When
you have overlapping identities (for
example QTPOCs)
you’re constantly
navigating different spaces: it’s an ongoing negotiation process
identity wise, and that’s an added burden. It’s often tiring.
You’re constantly trying to fit yourself into a culture or
space that hasn’t been designed for you.

So there definitely are added burdens of constantly
negotiating whiteness and a white washed
patriarchal industry. For example, spinning at
clubs that may perpetuate misogyny, e.g. spinning
on line ups that have no diversity feeling like the
token woman or the token brown person [ gigging
is often a combination of both] . I’m constantly
balancing my frustrations with the music scene with
an awareness that I need to do gigs to grow. I guess
the bottom line is that people of color we make
tradeoffs to feel or be accepted - all the time.
What music genres are really inspiring to
you at the moment and why? I’ve personally
become enraptured by the queer rap scene
and find it incredibly powerful and poignant.
Yeah, funny you mention that scene - lately
some of the experiences in Baltimore queer
(and just non-conforming) musical spaces have
really inspired me. Abdu Ali gave me my first
gig in Baltimore over a year ago, and since
then we’ve been good friends and allies. I’ve
definitely grown to appreciate more ‘noise’
music because of him (he’s been compared to
Death Grips, probably to his dismay). While I
don’t really spin noise music, I am inspired with
music that ignores conventions, and is accessible
- I feel that way about noise music. You don’t
need to be a classically or institutionally trained
musician to be a producer in this scene. Recently
I saw Juliana Huxtable (Shock Value) do a DJ
set outside Baltimore and it blew me away. I’m
also a fan of DJ Haram (Discwoman), the Fade
to Mind Label which has folks like Ngunzuguzu
and Kelela, Fatima Qadiri on Hyperdub. I like
the emphasis on found objects, it’s encouraging
to me and makes me really want to make music.
You identify yourself as being an empath.
I’m an empath, too, and it sometimes feels
chaotic because you’re so hyper aware of
the energies of others and your environment
that it can take a toll on your own energy
balance. Could you talk a bit about your most
telling experiences being both an empath
and a DJ? Do you think it’s a blessing or
curse having that level of sensitivity.
It’s definitely a challenge to be an empath and

a DJ, but also a blessing. The good part is that you
have the ability to feel out the energy of a crowd,
and make course corrctions as you go along to
keep people the whole set. The downside is that
even one person who looks bored or isn’t having
a good time bothers me. I had that experience
at the Paradox out in Baltimore last winter... I was
playing a mix of Ballroom and Club tunes - most of
the people were dancing and having a great time
but this one guy just kept looking at me. Staring.
I could tell he wasn’t having a good time. It really
bummed me out. Another time was at Flash when
I had to restart my equipment half way through a
set - I just couldn’t get back on track after that vibewise, and I came home and felt terrible. As an artist
you pour so much of yourself into your work, and
as an empath when you can’t connect with people,
you feel really drained.
What is your interpretation of authenticity, and
what does forging your “own sound” mean to
you?
That’s a great question. I often think about that authenticity is important to me. When I first started
DJing, I remember having a moment where I
decided to call the whole thing an experiment. I
wanted to see if I could do something very visible,
and stay true to myself at the same time. It was a
clear goal - I remember even writing about this
intention on my website (an earlier version). Lately
this thought has come up more because I’ve
definitely felt some pressure to brand myself for a
wider audience. I haven’t figured out how to do that
without modifying myself. I’ve always been a fan of
the phrase “don’t believe the hype” - but lately I’ve
felt that to pay bills as a full-time artist, a little hype
might be necessary. I’m definitely a believer of hard
work over hype though. Regarding sound, I think a
lot of this too, but in the aspect of producing. I’ve
been producing for about a year now and hesitant
to release stuff out of fear that it won’t conform to
my ‘sound.’ I’ve mentioned this in other interviews
before but I’ll reiterate here that I’m a very diverse
DJ, as far as my selections go. So as a producer, it’s
been hard to find my signature sound.

I’ve been told however that every producer and
DJ has their own sound, whether they know it or
not. I think the techniques that we use to mix, our
tastes, and what we look for when listening to
music inform our personal sounds. Since money
is tight, I do want to be known for a certain style
of music that makes clubs and venues want to
book me. I’m currently testing out a variety of
sounds to see what I make best.
Having a nomadic mindset sometimes make
it difficult for others to understand your
music and identity. When was the first time
you fell in love with music and what did that
feel like?
I don’t actually remember the first time I fell in
love with music. I’ve always loved it, and can’t
trace that feeling back to a specific moment of
recognition. However, I do have memories of
really enjoying music as a child. One of those was
head banging to Nirvana and Guns and Roses in
my parents’ basement when I was like 5. I also
feel like a lot of my life has been soundtracked there are always songs that remind me of certain
parts of my life. Like, certain Bollywood songs
that kids sang on the bus on my way to school in
India (when I first moved there in 1995). Because
I can recall the songs, I also remember what
that part of my life felt like. That’s really what’s
incredible about music - it can really take you
back in time.
This isn’t so much a question, but a discussion
point for how you view American culture
while being ethnically diverse.
You’ve expressed frustration at being
constantly compared to M.I.A. because
you’re a brown woman in music. While I do
agree that she has set this sort-of precedent
that all brown artists should use their cultural
sounds within their productions, I do think
that M.I.A is at the hands of different societal
constructs. M.I.A’s from London, and in the
UK, being able to express the beauty of
one’s cultural identity can be a powerful act
of activism. On the other hand, I feel that in

the States, there’s this expectation that cultural
minorities should adhere to their cultural sounds
in order for them to be exoticized and set apart
as “different”.
If you could offer advice to a new minority
musician trying to produce music in the American
industry, what advice would you give them?
I agree with your point that it can be a beautiful
empowering thing to create music that draws
from your cultural traditions. Especially when it’s a
form of cultural and political resistance (as in MIA’s
case, with her being a Sri Lankan living in the UK).
I definitely enjoy her work a lot. However, I made
that comment about MIA because we live in a
time when there are very few South Asian women
visible in mainstream dance music. We exist in
a culture where brown people are rarely cast as
protagonists in mainstream television - and when
they are, they’re cast as doctors or lawyers. Rarely
are we portrayed as creative, ambitious, confident,
dimensional people. To me it really feels like our
experiences aren’t seen as valuable or as relatable,
at least by the American media. This has a wider
cultural impact, one of them being ignorance - I
get compared to MIA because she’s one of the few
South Asian musical artists most Americans can
bring to mind.
My advice to minority producers is to focus on your
dream - even if your family thinks you’re crazy. Many
of us are breaking the mold when put ourselves
out here as creative people - success is possible if
you’re consistent , no matter who you are or where
you come from. Focus on the sounds - for they are
limitless.

“As an artist you pour so much of
yourself into your work, and as an
empath when you can’t connect with
people, you feel really drained.”

¿De donde eres?
Whichever country I was in, or whatever language I spoke, people would ask me
the same question over and over again.
Where are you from?
It was the look that gave it all away. When I saw the look in their eyes, I knew we
would be having the conversation I dreaded having.
I would say I’m from America. Born and raised in New York City. Then I got even
more perplexed looks. With an intensified piercing tone this time, people would
ask again,
Where are you from?
Before I could say another word, people said and did anything to catch my
attention.
Maybe it was the Indian auto-rickshaw walla repeatedly honking his horn and
yelling “Konichiwa!” at me on the crowded streets of Udaipur.
Maybe it was the Thai noodle shop owner that kept saying “syeh-syeh” after I
paid for my meal and would only stop when I told him I wasn’t Chinese.
Maybe it was the Korean vendor that looked puzzled when I suddenly paused
during our conversation because I forgot the word for shoelaces in Korean.
Maybe it was the Panamanian kids that pointed and shouted “Chino” at me
when we were playing a round of musical chairs in a remote village.
Maybe it was the high school math teacher I talked to that kept asking me what
my real, Asian name was.
Or maybe it was the Cambodian bus company employee that spoke to me in
Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Thai, but never attempted to speak in English
even after all the times I shook my head, “no.”
After all of these encounters, I felt defeated. It was when I visited new
environments that I was reminded of my physical identity, which clashed with the
dominant narrative of what an American was supposed to look like.
Although all of these encounters made me feel frustrated, angry, and confused,
one feeling I hated feeling the most was being powerless. Whenever people
assumed a cultural identity upon me that wasn’t my own, I felt powerless because
my appearances were then perceived as flaws to my actual identity.

Americans don’t usually look like you.
Many times, it’s the unfamiliar surroundings that make me feel vulnerable. I cringe when
people ask me where I’m from and shy away when people ask where I’m really from.
Gwangwang-gaeg, videyshi, farang, turista, tourist. None of these words were words that
people identified me with, because with my monolid eyes, pale skin, and straight black
hair,
my outward appearances did not reflect their perceptions of what many Americans look
like.
But then again, how can diversity fit a single image?
The questions that people ask me about my cultural identity always strike me but from my
domestic and international travels, I’ve learned that although I possess physical features that
separate me from other Americans, those features do not shape my narrative as a person.
Just as other cities, villages, and countries are linguistically, culturally, and genetically
diverse, I am an example that America is too.

Words by Nancy Chong
art by Nicole Brunet

Skin
Care
Love the skin youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in

36

photo by Lucila Dazzi

To The Daughters We
Washed Away:
This is how you wake up loving yourself.
The sun will shine in on you through the window facing your bed; blink away the glow of your
dreams from the night before. This day was made for you. This life is yours. Moving in small circles,
rub into your skin tea tree oil and lavender. Place a warm rag over your face and let air slowly fill your
lungs. Release. Step into the shower as hot as you can make it. Let the steam melt away all thoughts
you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need. Let all things go as gently as this.
Love the skin youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re in with jojoba oil, coconut if you prefer. Never forget to moisturize, especially
when the winter wind stings at your nose, especially at night. You must not think that your skin needs
to be soft for boys, or girls, or whoever you want to feel it. This is a gift for you.
This is how you boil water for morning tea. These are the herbs to boil if you find coffee too strong
or the tea not strong enough. Sit quietly and sip, not thinking of what you need to do or who you
have to be. Talk to God, or Yourself, about your dreams from the night before. If your sleep is too
compact to think your way back to yourself, talk about the dreams you have for the day ahead.
Never cover your shoulders when the sun wants to kiss them on a hot, bright day. Vitamin D is
important, especially for us. On 70 degree days when the wind makes everyone look romantic, never
stop your dress from moving with the breeze or your hair from swaying in the sun. The universe
teaches us how to move with it. This is how you bury your feet in cool sand or hide your toes in thick
blades of sweet smelling summer grass.
This is how you memorize the smell of people you love without losing your own scent. Give when
you need to get. Sometimes the people you love and the people who love you will hurt you. It will
be worth it. Cry when you need to. There are rules in this world made specifically for you. Ignore
them if you choose. Do what you want but be aware of the consequences before choosing. Many of
them are unfair. You will be hell-bent on learning all of these things from experience. I will be there
when it hurts.
This is how to be there for yourself when no one is there, and it still hurts.

Words by Sydnee Monday, photo by Steven Baboun
Sydnee Monday is a writer and filmmaker most interested in exploring what shame has told us not to talk
about. She writes about her mental wellness experience as a Woman of Color at blackgirlblue.co

Photo by Lucila Dazzi, illustrations by Sofia Salazar

N

ot all skincare routines are made the
same. Not all skincare routines are for
everyone, but I’ve found the one that
works for me.

As someone who grew up with very sensitive
skin, even a ripe strawberry would cause my
cheeks to break out in hives, I’ve tried about
everything and up until a year and a half ago I
thought that I just wasn’t meant to be a person
with soft, healthy skin.
But alas! We are all meant to shine and we are
all meant to be proud and comfortable in our
skin. I was introduced to the company Origins
a long time ago but it’s hard to feel confident
about skincare when you’re going through
puberty. I was reintroduced to the company
at Christmas 2013, by my brother’s fiancé. She
gave me a box of samples with two face washes
and two creams, and to this day I have become
invested not only in the contents of the box but
just about everything from Origins.
Everyday:
My daily skincare routine and something I think
no matter your skin type, should be included in
your routine, is moisturizer. I use two products
from the GinZing line. I use the Energy-Boosting Moisturizer ($27.50) and the Refreshing Eye
Cream to Brighten and Depuff ($30.00). In the
mornings or after a shower I will apply a thin

layer of the Energy-Boosting Moisturizer over
my whole face. Being careful to get under my
chin and along the sides of my nose, two spots
that are often forgotten. Then I apply the Refreshing Eye Cream in a small amount under
my eyes. The reason I initially fell in love with
these products was because they actually have
caffeine in them. Both of these products, along
with others in the GinZing line, use coffee as
an active ingredient allowing me to feel more
awake and refreshed throughout the day.
Whether you have dry skin, oily skin, or like me
both, these products are here to help. But don’t
get carried away, a little goes a long way. The
packaging is small but I end up going through
two Energy-Boosting Moisturizers a year and
possibly one Refreshing Eye Cream in a year
making the price definitely worth it.
In the shower:
Washing my face in the shower is probably one
of the most relaxing activities for me, mainly
because of my cleanser. I use two face washes,
one as a cleanser and the other for exfoliating.
The cleanser I use is Frothy Face Wash ($22.00)
from the Checks and Balances collection. Similar to the moisturizer, a little goes along way. I
usually apply a nickel-sized dollop in my hand
and evenly apply it over my face. Here’s where
the relaxing comes in. I then massage the
cleanser into my T zone for close to a minute.
Now I know this sounds like a lot in shower time
but trust me, it’s centering. The combination
of silky consistency

and fresh smell can help ease tension from a
stressful day or help to prepare you for the day
ahead. Similar to the moisturizers, this product
usually lasts me a little more than six months.
After my cleanser I use Nature’s Gentle Dermabrasion ($33.00) part of the Modern Friction
collection. It’s a beautifully natural exfoliator,
using rice as an active ingredient. I use this
product very lightly and not everyday. I put
a dime-sized dot on my
finger and gently massage
it over my forehead, pores
around my nose, my chin,
and at my temples. So
mainly I use in spots that
tend to break out or get
dry. It is made for dry skin
so if you have oily skin,
this may not be the product for you, but if you’re
like me that my skin can
be both oily and dry in a
day I suggest massaging it
lightly with your fingers so
as not to get any irritation.
Because this product, once
again, should only be used
in small amounts it tends
to last me way over a year
making it a very economical purchase when you
can feel the benefits after
even just one use. Origins
also makes this product for
your body but I sometimes
use my face wash on dry
spots on my arms and legs
and it really does wonders
for me.
Along with washing my face, I have recently
come to terms of the importance of taking care
of all the skin of my body. I know, I said recently,
I really wasn’t the best but now that I’ve found
products that work for me I have created a
healthier routine. For the longest time I was
using a plain bar of Dove soap, and honestly

it took care of my skin pretty well. However,
as of recently I’ve been getting some more
discoloration and irritation and started to look
for better soaps. I use Dr. Bronner’s All-One
Hemp Tea Tree Pure-Castile Bar Soap ($4.69).
Now because I haven’t been using this product for a whole year, I don’t know how long
it lasts me but I’m very satisfied with it so far.
Tea Tree oil has many benefits and I choose
this one because of how it helps inflammation. You can buy just the oil form from a
super market in the supplement aisle and
use it for acne, infected piercings, and other
skin irritations. Dr. Bronner’s soap leaves my
skin feeling clean and healthy without leaving
any residue. It’s also all organic, fair-trade,
and not tested on animals. Dr. Bronner’s is
known for their liquid soaps that have the
ability to be used in 18 different ways. It’s
biodegradable and perfect for camping and
backpacking trips. If you have relatively thin,
and no-nonsense hair, you can also use it as
a shampoo. However, if you’re like me, someone who cannot comb through their hair
without conditioner, I do not recommend it.
I find that my hair is still dirty and impossible
to comb through after. But nonetheless, it
works as a wonderful body soap for me and
I recommend it. Along with Hemp Tea Tree,
there is also seven other fragrances, all possessing their own unique benefits.
Having a good skincare routine isn’t just
about how the products make you feel it is
also making sure that you are supporting ethical companies. A lot of cheaper brands use
harsh chemicals and ingredients that could
be tested on animals or use unethical practices in retrieving ingredients. Both Origins
and Dr. Bronner’s are all organic companies
that put a lot of thought and care into their
ingredients, making sure that they are healthy
from start to finish. You skin is sensitive and
it is important. Give it the love and attention
that it deserves with products that come from
a company that cares.
Words + art by Nicole Brunet

Loving my skin:
a schedule
Morning:
Try to rise with the sun. Start
my day off drinking lots of water,
wash my face with cold water and a
light coffee scrub, and moisturize with
a little bit of frankincense oil. I might spray
a bit of rosewater on my face if I’m feeling
really exhausted from the day before. Enjoy the
morning light with a cup of gingko and ginger
tea (good for memory and anti-stress) and read a
chapter of an inspirational book to put me in the right mindset for the day. I try to
read and write every morning when I wake up because I know it’s what makes me
deeply happy, and then you have something to look forward to when you wake
up. Pause and love the day a little before it starts. I try to wear as litle make-up as
possible and remind myself that I don’t need. No one should feel obligated to.
Afternoon:
Give myself a break and have some green tea - it’s great for your skin and good
for your health in general! Go for a walk and feel the breeze against your cheeks.
If I’m hungry, I’ll make myself oatmeal with a tablespoon of coconut oil. Grød, the
Danish oatmeal restaurant has the best recipes to make you feel so hygge (cozy).
If my eyes look a bit tired, I’ll dab on some vitamin E cream or almond oil. Most
importantly, stay hydrated and drink lots of water!

Evening:
Take a medium-warm to cold shower. No need to scrub too hard because our
skin actually needs to retain all its natural oils. I try to not shower for more than
five minutes. Don’t forget to thank your body for being present and working so
hard that day. We don’t thank our bodies enough. Be a best friend to your body.
To moisturize I use jojoba or coconut oil. If you have really dry skin, try using
avocado oil. For a natural make-up remover, I use Farmaesthetics’ Eyebright Oil:
with sweet almond oil, chamomile oil, grapeseed oil and vitamin E. All my make
up comes off so easily with it! For dinner (or every meal to be honest), I always
make avocado toast with lime juice, salt, pepper, and cayenne pepper on seedy
bread. To relax, I’ll either have lavender tea or dandelion tea, which are both very
de-stressing and detoxing.
Night:
To treat myself, I’ll make homemade turmeric tea (using tumeric, fresh ginger,
coconut oil, water, honey and cinnamon). It’s very good for your skin and when
turned into a face mask, it’s anti-bacterial. You can make a natural face mask just
by using honey, lemon and cinnamon and leaving it on for 10-15 minutes.
You can also make a hair mask using
tumeric, avocado or coconut oil, and
honey. I do this hair treatment
maybe once every two weeks.

Words by Izzi McDonnell, illustrations by Sofia Salazar

Medicine cabinet musings
I’ve always been jealous of people with perfectly-composed medicine cabinets.
You know the type - their bathrooms are all white and they have a plant on their
windowsill. Their medicine cabinets are stocked with Mario Badescu products
and other fancy face creams and there’s not a Maybelline mascara in sight.Their
medicine cabinets subtly say, “I am rich and I have my life together,” not only
because of what they have, but also of what they have not.
There is a luxury to minimalism that I have not yet achieved.
(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, just go on the blog Into the Gloss their peeks into successful medicine cabinet’s have been fueling my voyeuristic
tendencies since before their Glossier days made them a must-have for artsy
NYC it girls.)
With my cluttered collection of Burt’s Bees cleanser, charcoal scrub, 3 tins of
rosebud salve, tray of multi-colored powdered glitters, various hodgepodge
of Sephora samples and god knows how many tubes of red lipsticks, it is an
elegance I fear I will never have. The ability to have just one of something and
none of others and feel perfectly content with that.
For me, my mark of success will be when I have condensed my cabinet into a
cool collection of glass bottles and foreign beauty products and have finally
settled on my signature scent. But for now, I will revel in the abundance of my
youth and buy yet another tube of red lipstick - because who else would I be
able to find my perfect shade?

By Genevieve Kotz
Illustration by Sofia Salazar

nature
Reveal your true skin

48

There, traced below the window
I listen as it speaks
about other times, now
and yesterday
you said goodbye to
who I used to be today
I am someone fading
into tomorrowâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s once here,
twice empty spaces.

Words by Molly Pfeffer

Lioness
I feel sick
Because the hairs that stand on end
surround me with their prickly protrusions
giving me the sense of chill where there is
only the absence of heat,
Heat that only the quick smirk from the
lioness leering across the room can rip
apart with her teeth,
Heat that can glean from her gaze and
amaze with the grace of her fur,
Heat that can plead with the beast in me
to unleash beneath the remains from
those days of morality.
She’s prepared to pounce, but doesn’t
move an ounce
I feel sick
Because the doctor that sits before me
only knows the letters A and double D,
twisting my words and worries into
thoughts of sex and pity that distract the
lament i keep lingering inside. The inside
that longs for the simple slouch of a
woman to grace the room of my throne,
and make me swell to wear the crown of
thorns I keep laced between my ribs
That makes it hard to breathe because
I feel sick
Because I can’t talk to you
I feel sick
Because I studder
I feel sick
Because being alone is not the cure

Words by anonymous, photo by Georgia Evert

midnight

Trigger warning:
police brutality

Words by Vanessa Newman,
Photo by Lucila Dazzi

sometimes
i wear my hoodie walking home
late at night just to see if i’ll get shot.
sometimes
i wear all black at night
just to see if i’ll get hit by a white car
stopped by a white car - cop car
saved by a white car - ambulance
saved by a white light - white Jesus
sometimes i feel like a dark star
in a dark sky surrounded by white stars
shining bright
i swear sometimes it seems like
we’re all dark stars shining in a dark sky,
it don’t mean we’re not illuminating light
white just shines more bright
but why is that, white Jesus?
why i gotta walk around
questioning the value of my life?
why do i wear all black at night
why do i wear my black hoodie upright
just to see if i’ll get stopped by a
white car
white man
white star
why can’t i be a dark star
that shines bright in the night sky?
ain’t anyone ever show you that
midnight is a beautiful color?
or that it just signifies the time
of night you lock your windows
and close your blinds
to dark stars shining bright
across a midnight sky?
sometimes
i just wanna be a dark star
that stands out in a dark sky
dark times
and not get shot
cause i’m the color of midnight
and not get lost cause my
bright light ain’t white
i just wanna be a dark star
and still shine bright
i just want my midnight to shine.
so sometimes
i walk at night in all black
and pretend it does.

Trigger warning:
racism

You cute, huh.
And then I asked myself,
would I find me attractive?
Of course you are. You’re great. You’re amazing.
Hashtag Slay.
No, I think it’s all about the extra 5 Ys.
Slayyyyy.
Yes, much better.
What’s the other one?
Oh yes, Hashtag flawless.
If beyonce, said it, it must be true.
Except… I don’t quite look like Beyonce.
No. I have cellulite. I have love handles.
My abs? No sorry, don’t quite have those
I prefer the ‘rotund’ variety.
My face isn’t naturally contoured. I get bags under my eyes.
My hair isn’t blonde, or straight. No, my hair is black and I believe it’s called nappy.
I say ‘believe’ because that word was thrusted upon me.
I wasn’t given an option.
Suffocating under labels? Yes that’s me.
Thick? Because I don’t fit into a size 4. Ok.
Black? I mean I’m more than just a black girl but if that’s what you want to label me?
Ok.
Well spoken for a black girl? Is there a black language I don’t know about?
Pretty for a black girl? Are all black girls ugly

I’m confused
Yes. Confused. Another label.
White. The worst. Apparently I don’t relate to my culture because I pronounce my Ts
and use colons when I write;
Oh but I’m loud.
Yes. Typical black girls. Loud, loud, loud
Crazy. Loud.
Fiesty. Loud.
Aggressive. Loud.
Mad. Loud.
Wild.
Oh did I forgot to mention I’m barbaric ?
Yes, why don’t you call me an animal.
I bet the first animal you thought of was a baboon.
Because you can’t forget that I resemble a monkey .
But you’re not allowed to say it are you
I bet you’re just itching to say it
I dare you
I D A R E YOU.
Reduce me
Dehumanize me
You do it every day anyway
Why not be upfront.
Why not just fucking say it.

Words by Alexandra Oti

My
Own
Again
Words by Sydnee Monday,
Art by Ana Villarreal

Formication:
A sensation like
insects crawling
over skin

I

n the middle of a dry June with sunsets that looked like cotton candy, my skin started
to crawl. It began in what I thought was a dream: like soft waves my skin moved. I
woke up, swatting at what I expected to be a spider, an ant. But there was nothing so I
shrugged it off.
I continued into July and the feeling continued with me. I watched old movies on my
laptop and every morning in the mirror I checked my skin for bug bites. The hazy hum of
the summer sun played in the background as I drove to the local library and checked out
books I knew I probably wouldn’t return. The blue sheets on my bed began to frustrate me
as I ripped them off every night before replacing them to sleep. I read magazines on the
floor and filled out job applications online. In the middle of my day I would sometimes take
off my shirt, turning it inside out and checking the seams. It became impossible to keep
this experience to myself, but the more I shared with those closest to me, the crazier I felt.
I had become obsessed with this feeling, overwhelmed with the thought that I was
somehow dirty and that my most intimate, personal space had been invaded. But I’d
also become obsessed with proving that I had bed bugs, or ants, or anything that could
validate my experience in my body to someone else. The swatting became a quick touch
my arm, less aggressive, more affirming. In the midst of feeling like my body was turning
on me, I used my body to physically acknowledge that I was still on my own side.
I woke up from a nap one day in my bed and felt the crawling down my arm. I grabbed at
the feeling, and there it was: small, hungry. I put the bug into a clear baggie and called the
exterminator. I wasn’t crazy. I saw with my own eyes that something I felt was connected to
something that was tangible and that others could see. And so that feeling was true, that
feeling was right. I was right.
The next morning, small bits of clear plastic were strewn across the floor. My dog had torn
up the bag. I went into the bathroom and sobbed. Was there anything there to begin with?
I typed in “crawling skin.” I could have: Diabetes, Menopause, Morgellons Syndrome,
be withdrawing from alcohol or drugs. I went to the doctor and everything was fine. The
exterminator came anyway and found nothing.
I was tired of fighting my body; I grew bored, I gave up. I got new sheets, and I stopped
swatting at the feeling because I knew it would be there and I’d see nothing. I honored
my body by allowing myself the space to feel without judgement and I acknowledged that
regardless of what made sense to others, I knew what I was feeling in my body.
One day in fall, the crisp air swept the feeling away entirely. It was lost with the heat, and
the summer, and the fear of feeling what I felt. I had come to accept that my experience
could be solely definable by what only I felt to be true, because in that feeling was truth,
was reality, was rationality. My skin was my own again.

A fire in the woods

Trigger warning:
racism, violence

I had a dream
the world went like this:
with little black boys, those little black kids,
that they weren’t the sons of former slaves and lynching
never prefaced their graves
But that they were kings,
the best clothes,
the best schools,
went to church, had no fears,
followed their parents like little black fools.
Followed their parents because they weren’t scared:
of walking alone and being unprepared,
of walking alone and the faces that stared
of the White Man’s Burden their dark skin declared.
I had a dream
the world went like this:
In 1968 with his heart a dim abyss,
that Martin Luther King from a rooftop of secrecy, shot down
a white man, in the name of black supremacy.
And White America cried and buried their heads,
“How could this man filled with love now be dead?”
James Earl Ray: A soup of melted rubies in the road,
and those rubies shined with the tears of inequality’s hold.

I had a dream
of black pointed hoods,
meetings round the cross,
a fire in the woods.
I had a dream,
of signs biased and lonely:
NO WHITES ALLOWED
and SERVE COLOREDS ONLY
I had a dream,
the world went like this:
way down in Georgia with its black racists,
little white girls, those little white kids,
felt threatened and confused
by the color of their skin.
And they would look in the mirror
and scream up to God
to know why they were made into something so flawed.
And the mirror would answer with hopeless silence,
the loudest call they heard to arms and to violence.
I had a dream of Malcom X and Rosa Parks,
of your grandfather and mine, of Civil Rights’ Louis and Clark.
I had a dream,
But the world went like that:
when a black man was shot just because he spoke back.
Because the world went like that, anger transcended
these decades where race is welcomed to be blended.
There’s a site on the web of a calendar of lynching,
that can’t be read without deep breaths and fist clenching.
And it’s said to be offered in the spirit of healing,
and the image of Walton Adams murdered in Georgia ’26—
is reading his name supposed to be the fix?
Can it take the bullets out of the gun,
And give warm blood to his hands to grab his only son?

I had a dream!
I had a dream,
But the world went like that:
with beatings as sport,
and racism as fact.
And it wasn’t one-sided, no, blacks they took their turn,
Let hate evolve to violence and violence into urns.
And now there’s a stereotype of black men today,
that stopped Trayvon Martin from just walking away,
and put guns in the hands of boys still learning to add,
and lowered the number of little black kids with dads.
So I look at the world and consider my dream
and transport back in history and think of time in between.
I went to sleep only to wake up
and ask if my people are really so tough?
Because if the world had changed and hadn’t gone like that:
would anything
really
be different
at all?
Would anything really be different at all?

Words by Autumn Henderson
Photo by Lucila Dazzi

The travellerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s
skin

Like a chameleonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s back

my skin changes:
from landscape to landscape,
culture to culture,
and language to language,
it adapts to its surrounding environment,
and changes the smallest of its details.
The luxury of my skin
permits me to conceive of it metaphorically:
instead of pigments, hair, and blood vessels
my skin is held together by an idiosyncratic assortment of
words, idioms, and basic human emotions.
In a reductive sense, I have three of them:
an Anglo-Saxon one, a Francophone one,
and a rudimentary, messy, multilingual one,
well-known and endorsed by all those who have travelled.
This latter skin is by far the most interesting one:
making appearances only when
all conventional means of communication have broken down,
and is usually accompanied by uncertain smiles,
soft looks, and hand gestures of a vaguely Italian nature.

The goal of this language
is to inspire in the interlocutor
a sense of trustworthiness;
a sense of humanity, of decency,
and an understanding that,
in its most basic form,
the travelerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s curiosity
is harmless.
At the foundation of this language lies a question
in the form of an extended hand,
reaching out for help in this unknown land.
It presents an age-old dilemma:
To trust or not to trust?
To help this stranger or not to help this stranger?
A certain leap of faith is required,
but once the first brick of the bridge is laid
the crests on my back soften up,
my skin evolves
into a sweeter, more joyful green
dotted in purple.
My friend,
hopefully,
is now also appeased,
and somewhat intrigued
and he, in turn, begins extending his hand to me.

Here lies the most precious moment of all moments of travel
a short period of time when,
man-to-man,
human-to-human,
we respectively, and respectfully,
begin to reveal each other
to one another
carrying with us the crushing weights
of our nations, cultures, shared histories, and contrasting ideologies.
Acting as two diplomats
we judicially choose which information to convey
and which to stray away from,
playing a game of guessing each other’s prejudices,
guessing each other’s customs—
truly one of the oldest games in the world—
until finally,
this barrier is broken down
and replaced by the common ground
of genuine laughter,
inquisitiveness, and knowledge.
A common language,
a common human skin.

Words by Pierre Deliso, Photo by Lucila Dazzi
illustration by Nicole Brunet
Inspired by Pablo Neruda, the wonderful country of Chile, and all of the other countries
that I have had the privilege and utmost pleasure of visiting.

my stretch marks mark parts of my body that
are easy to hide
parts society prefers i keep covered cause
they are all not the same tone
my estuaries and rivers scare them
my journeys aren’t ones they’d like to see
but they’re mine and i’m going to show them
they deserve to be seen
by Sanjana Hariprasad

Photo by Lucila Dazzi

I have a skin that’s invisible to others.
It has no class.
It has no colour.
I am the one who cultivates it.
It’s my sensitivity to the world:
understanding what you cherish, what you fear,
what you love.
This invisible layer is my chrysalis
where I become all that I had dreamed
and what they’ll miss.
Even though you aren’t
watching me with
baited breath,
Even though you aren’t
amazed by its rare
glow,
There’s still a heart that’s growing inside:
wanting to understand her
own power.
This see-through skin is a gift:
It lets me see into the souls of others.
But now I’m slowly learning
to see into my own.
But note, my dear,
that even when you are invisible
you get to know this heart so intimately
that there’d be no room for
another.
In this way
You make a warm circumference
by which others grow their own
invisible skins, and learn
to love themselves.
Words by Izzi McDonnell,
illustration by Sofia Salazar

Trigger warning:
rape, violence against women

This is me talking
about breasts.

This is me talking about breasts
I hate my breasts
Hate them
They’re the wrong shape
The distance is too far apart
My nipples are too big
They are saggy
They are lack lustre
Have you ever seen 40 year old virgin?
Because these are the bags of sand that he’s talking about
Ugh I hate my breasts
Honestly I could go on
I’ve analysed them enough
I’ve tried to love them
Every day I look at myself in the mirror naked
And I try
I try so hard
I try different positions
I convince myself that they’re really not that bad
They’re fine
Babe they’re fine
Seriously, who even cares anyway
This is me talking about breasts

Not because you all need to know every flaw that exists on my body
(We’ll save thighs for another day)
but because how do I live in a world
where someone with as much shit going on as me I have a lot of shit going on!
You know, I read from time to time
I know what’s going on in the world
I’m focussed (ish)
I’m driven (ish)
I’m not horrible
I have on occasion shown aspects of kindness
So how has someone with shit going on
So utterly obsessed and disgusted by her breasts
Surely that’s minor?
Surely it shouldn’t matter
I just got back from America
As I was walking to a train
There was a shop or a ‘store’
They were selling tshirts for the presidential candidates in the window
There was one of Trump
Standing in some kind of power stance
Suited up
Looking serious
Looking strong
Looking powerful
And then next to him was one of Hillary
They had photoshopped her head onto the body
Of some busty, flat stomached girl in a bikini
The bikini had the American flag printed on it
Because of course hashtag patriotic
Tell me again that breasts don’t matter
Do you blame me for feeling continuously objectified
When Olympic female medalists are told to wear makeup
Tell me again that breasts don’t matter
Is pamela Anderson famous for her acting prowess
Tell me again that breasts don’t matter when working mums feel like they have the weight of
the world on their shoulders
Forget working mums
Just all mums
Have a career
Keep the career

Be successful
Have a family
Be attentive to the family
Attention always
Attention to your family
Husband, have a husband
Keep him happy
Oh he cheated?
Maybe it’s because she let herself go
The younger secretary?
Cute. Expected.
Everything still points up
Tell me again that breasts don’t matter
When I feel like I’m on a pendulum
Swinging from either feeling ugly
Or worried that I’m going to be harassed
Worried that I’m going to be raped
Tell me that breasts don’t matter
When that’s the first thing some boys see
Yes I said some
Don’t sass me
No not all
I’m sure you wouldn’t do that
Right?
You see me as a person
Right?
We get along
You’re funny
I love funny
Then why won’t you get your hand off my thigh
Why do you keep forcing me
I thought we were having a nice time
Tell me that breasts don’t matter
When some people just see me as a pair of tits on legs
It’s funny too
Because I hate them
Oh you that I hate
Couldn’t you just be shaped a little better?
Words by Alexandra Oti, photo by Steven Baboun

The Girl
I often think about how my gazes were always so caring for him.
I never was that caring or filled with love when I looked at my own reflection
in mirrors. Somehow, when I’d look back at myself, I wouldn’t see that body
worthy of so much love or tenderness.
Who told me that I was nothing? When had that ever been true?
I made him beautiful because of the way I looked at him. That is the power of
the girl gaze: you convert even the most dishonorable being into someone
magical; you deem those people as being worthy of the love you so
relentlessly give, while they won’t even lift a finger for you and your gorgeous
energy.
It’s only when your pure love is taken and so coldly betrayed that you begin
to learn they weren’t mirrors with morals. No--it is more important to leave.
Throw away their image and love your own instead. Learn to re-humanize
your own body, instead of always providing excuses for its abuses.
I close my eyes, and all of a sudden, all the people I had crossed paths with
in my life; all the people I had loved, made love to, and had laughed with,
became no more than brief breezes in the wind. My heart had become the
door that would unlock and lock this constellation of memories whenever I
needed them. To remind myself that people in life can be temporary, but that
I always made them beautiful when they were around.
I contemplated the beauty of my own name. I never thought about how
unique it sounded; how it could marinate on my tongue, waiting to be
understood and seen for its true beauty. When did I even contemplate the
subtle aspects of myself, like the way I romanticized every inch of his body
and mind?

Words by anon., collage by Emma Asher

Gaze

Bloom in your own
radical self love garden

If tasting,
touching,
feeling, expressing,
caressing,
unfurling,
blooming,
being,
being a bitch,
being real,
being in my skin
makes me a slut
call me a slut.
but if thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your word for it.
I feel so sorry for your inability to reach
down into your depth and pull out your
own worth.
My skin empowers me.

Words by Sage Hess
Photo by Lucila Dazzi
Art by Sofia Salazar

Sleep
Sleep has evaded me for far too long. There are many who will understand
just how this feels. How strange, that in the moments when we most crave
peace, comfort, and sweet dreams, are we so are unable to touch them. When
pain makes my heart ache uncontrollably, I’ve found it interminably difficult
to close my eyes, empty my restless head of all thoughts, and give myself up
to the universe’s great waves of uncertainty. The dogs howl far away outside
my window, an unruly cacophony desperate for an audience. I dread when
the screeching birds of dawn will wake me up to my still harshly lit reality. The
moon peeps through the trees that I see from a slightly awkward, angled view
from my bed. I can’t help but think of you and where you might be and what
might be crossing your mind. is it me? I touch my chest, feel how it lifts and
sinks like waves of the sea. We are drops of water in the same ocean, you
and me. Although we may be far apart, moving further away from each other
among rough seas, I imagine you right next to me - in the ocean that is my
intense joy and pain. And just as the tide sinks and rises again, so too, will I
find sleep as this quickened breath subsides. Hours pass, in what seems like
an eternity, and finally my intense mental hunger becomes subdued. I’m no
longer looking for you. I’m looking for myself. I grasp the coolest pillow, pull
it towards me, wrap my legs around it, swathe myself in this newfound desire
for serenity and dreams. Like a helpless baby in swaddling clothes, as sleep
nears the world eventually wraps you up in its nighttime glow and tells you,
everything will be fine, you’re not alone because we are all the same. Droplet,
river, ocean, water.
I hope that when you find yourself in a somnambulant daze, desperate for your
sheets to swallow you up into the deepest slumber, that you find comfort in
the fact that I am dreaming of you. Yes, you. dreaming of all the possibilities of
our lives. of this world. i wonder if we might meet, and if I will love you, almost
as much as I love myself now.

Words by Izzi McDonnell, illustration by Sofia Salazar

Skin.
It’s a touchy subject, literally. When I reflect on moments from my childhood, I can
distinctly remember learning about all the colors of the rainbow in pre-school.
I couldn’t tell you when the concept of race was first introduced to me, but I
remember being deeply confused by it at a young age. How could I be “black” if
my skin was “brown”? It didn’t make sense to me. I resented the term for most of
my adolescence, preferring to identify as African-American.
As a child, I hated the color of my skin. In the eyes of my peers, brown was the
color of filth, and I struggled with the burden of inferiority. For too long, I denied
the magic of my melanin. I didn’t appreciate the beauty of its recovery no matter
what scrapes, bruises, cuts, or wounds were inflicted on its smooth surface.
I didn’t understand how my rich caramel complexion made fair women feel
insecure to the point where they willingly hopped in tanning beds.
But somehow, the light finally shined through my chocolatey eyes and I slowly
began to fall in love with the motley hues of brown. At last, I recognized the
value of what this pigmentation represented to the human race. It took nearly
two decades to learn, but I finally feel comfortable in my skin. Sometimes, it’s
overwhelming how proud I am to be a black woman.
My mother always told me not to color outside the lines when she should have
told me to see more color; but it’s not her fault that I was blinded by whiteness.
What an honor it is to be a person of color. I wear this skin with gratitude.

Words by Sydney Gore, Photo by Steven Baboun

Girlhood
belongs
to us
A photo series by Emmalyn Sullivan

Through staged portraiture and casual snapshots, I am
seeking out a language that belongs to me, for a girlhood
that belongs to many. Earlier versions of my work revolved
around creating the illusion of a dream-girl and unpacking
this myth in the same breath; a task which became too binary
restricting. Girls are more than ethereal goddesses and slobs
slurping soup!, they exist within an infinite spectrum. In an
essay by Roxanne Gay entitled Girls, Girls, Girls she says
“It is not possible for girlhood to be represented wholly—
girlhood is too vast and too individual an experience. We
can only try to represent girlhood in ways that are varied and
recognizable.” My goal with this project is to represent my
vision of the young girl in all her glory; on the cusp of dizzying
greatness and the nebulousness of life. The girls in the
photographs are me.

“It is not possible for girlhood to
be represented wholly— girlhood
is too vast and too individual an
experience.”

My work comes from a lifetime of being told where my place is on
the food chain. I am now looking for the ‘why’s and the ‘hows’ to
unravel the power dynamics at play, and to rewrite my past and
future from scratch. I will uncross my legs and trip gracelessly down
an evenly paved sidewalk without a camera angled up my skirt, i will
talk about my sexual conquests in open forum the way my brother
and our cousins are allowed, i will sit in a field of flowers and get
pollen stains on a shirt that was marketed to me by a company that
doesn’t care about the repercussions of its advertising, i will ride
the subway and walk down the street without having to repeat the
utterance “i have a boyfriend” and let a truth sound like a stale,
protective lie, i will sit with them, sit with all of them and talk about
the things that i love without someone checking my rap sheet or
resume, i will be naked and i will be concealed and neither of these
states will impact my personal or professional standings. In this new
history my reproductive freedom belongs to me and i am fearless
when I’m alone at night. I’m going to chew pink bubblegum and play
with my hair on the way to the mall to buy makeup and pop music
and pretty things and feel just as powerful as he does in his suit and
tie. i wonder which is sharper, the nails they told me to keep neat and
clean or the tongue i was told to cut out.
different ways of talking about what has been robbed of us
I’ve spent the least year examining the tropes in which women are
photographed, what gets taken away, what gets left behind and what
remains.

Emmalyn is BFA candidate at The Pratt Institute, currently living and
creating in Brooklyn, New York

Half of Skin
They tell us to love the skin we’re in,
We tell us to be confident
To be secure
However as a community, We diminish the difficulty placed on your soul when you
continuously have to tell yourself that you are beautiful
Because they’re not saying it.
It’s like screaming in a vacuum and not being heard.
Sound vanishing from your lips as if it had never been uttered
Your voice hoarse from the screaming
It hurts
No, it burns
Tears screaming down your face erupting as the only manifestation from your aching
heart
It feels like screaming in a vacuum and telling yourself to stop.
It feels like screaming in a vacuum and telling yourself that your voice deserves to be
heard
Your presence is valued.
Now that is hard. It is hard to continually reaffirm yourself when life pushes you down.
So excuse me when a chubby black girl with shabby breasts struggles to believe that
she is beautiful
If beauty comes from within, then why do I continually ask myself,
“If I was a boy, would I find myself attractive?”
Words by Alexandra Oti, photo by Steven Baboun

She rises
from her rosy bed already in awe of the world
the moment she opens her precious eyes
that have seen so much
and changed many
Hearts,
She wanders
knowing she helped others
discover themselves, tracing
the world with her
singing footsteps,
She fights
in a world that taught
her to love others before
she might learn to love
Herself,
She holds the whole world
in her breath as she exhales,
leaving this world as she sleeps
to bask in the heavens
as she dreams.

Words by Izzi McDonnell, photo by Georgia Evert

Dear Self,
Your heart is heavy because you have many
Unanswered questions keeping
You from moving on:
From propelling yourself into a
Dazzling world and
Mysterious future.
It does you no good my dear
To dwell on the past.
I promise that all those questions locked
In your heart, about to fall
From your lips
Will find their answers
As you grow from your chrysalis,
Developing into the wonderful,
Inspirational woman you are destined to be.
All that new perspective
Will make your heart
Light as air
And love will flow
Through you the way
Blood flows through veins,
You, will be a beautiful vision
Of all the answers to their own questions.
Love,
Self

Dear Self,
I know it’s hard. When you look in the mirror the face looking back can often be a
stranger. The eyes far away, lips: misshapen, and hair: wild. But your ‘self’ isn’t in the
mirror, it never was. It’s in the smile that grows red from laughing with old friends. It’s
the hands that trace hearts into the back of love.
When the sun sets and birds rest on their perches, close your eyes. Let your body slow
down. Take in the sounds of the night and the silence of your nerves. Never be afraid
to remind yourself of how important this life is. It is all we have. We must choose to
treat it like a guest: wholesome breakfasts, warm towels, fresh squeezed orange juice,
and love. Kiss the hands of compassion and sit with tenderness on a swing, watching
the sky grow dark.
Love,
Self